Less Proud and More Persuasive
by SophieTurner1805
Summary: What if Lady Catherine was just a little more rude, prompting Mr. Darcy to make a more Persuasion-esque proposal?
1. Chapter 1

**Less Proud and More Persuasive**

**AN:** It would not really have been my preference to start a new story while trying to edit and post a monstrous P&P continuation, but this ate my brain like so many zombies. I don't even know what to call it. It's a what-if, I suppose, and a little bit of a mash-up. This is set after the first dinner at Rosings with Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, but before Darcy begins encountering Elizabeth walking the grounds in her favourite spot. It borrows a few lines from Persuasion. Also, there is a massive present-tense experiment happening here. I'll still be working on finishing and posting "A Constant Love," but with this interspersed.

**Chapter 1**

If Lady Catherine were on better terms with her neighbours, they would have no need for this.

That the man who holds her living and his guests come over to dine so frequently should be embarrassing to his aunt. But although Lady Catherine could ensure by force of will that her neighbours of higher station were here to dine tonight, she will not, and this neighbourhood is not of the sort of society that comes together amicably, without some degree of effort. Lady Catherine prefers company she may look down on, company that will follow her word, look up to her, and so the Collinses and their guests are the only additions to the table this evening.

If Lady Catherine were on better terms with her neighbours, Fitzwilliam Darcy might not be so troubled.

He cannot be ordered around. Neither, usually, can Colonel Fitzwilliam, although Darcy's cousin often acquiesces to their aunt's demands rather more quickly than can be desired. But it is dinner; Darcy must attend – there is no escaping dinner – and therefore he must once again be in company with Elizabeth Bennet.

Elizabeth Bennet is not the most troubling thing to face him in what has been a troubling year, but she is easily the most vexing. Every time he wishes to forget her, she returns to his notice; every time he discounts her fortune, her family, she produces some wealth of wit that reminds him that the value of a lady – the value of a wife – goes beyond dowry and connexions.

She teases him that he must practice his conversation; he calls on the parsonage to find her unexpectedly, shockingly alone, and all that he had thought to say by way of suggested practice is displaced by an awkwardness brought on by his unexpected blankness of mind and the fact that propriety dicates this to be an impossibility. He is not the one used to initiating conversation; he is used to the ladies who are introduced to him, with their twenty- and thirty- and fifty-thousand portions, asking him question after wearying question, seeking to glean every little detail of how he lives in town, of how grand Pemberley and its lands are. He is used to being distracted by thoughts of how poorly his sister does, while these ladies are talking with him.

When Elizabeth again matches wit for wit against his aunt during dinner, when they have all made their way back to the drawing room for some manner of conversation that must be had amongst such a group, he cannot stand it anymore, and with his overheated thoughts, makes his way to a little secretary at the side of the room, and avails himself of the writing things there. He may write Georgiana; that is a simple thing, one he has done in company many times before, one that is necessary and will not be questioned, and if Lady Catherine once again makes Elizabeth Bennet take up the pianoforte, he will pay it no mind.

Her presence does not trouble him in the same way it used to. He has resolved to offer her marriage, despite all of his qualms. The difficulty is in figuring out how to go about it. As she is staying under Mr. Collins's roof, and nominally under his protection, the proper thing to do would be to call on the parsonage and request a private audience with her. But the thought of asking that ridiculous man for such a thing is so abhorrent he does not think he can bring himself to do it. No, he must find some way to speak with her alone, without the others knowing about it. If he had been sufficiently determined during his last call, when she was alone, he would have made his offer then, and he regrets not seizing the opportunity now that he _has_ made up his mind, but there is nothing to be done about it. Perhaps, though, he will be so fortunate again, or will encounter her on the grounds at Rosings. He plans to walk the grounds extensively tomorrow, and then call on the parsonage, and hope one or the other of these locations is successful.

Until such a time, he must endure more time with her in company, knowing what he wishes to do, and yet unable to do it, and this is torture of a new sort from that he is used to – of falling in love with Elizabeth Bennet despite the perceived impossibility of marrying her. The old torture he has managed to almost entirely talk himself out of. She is a gentleman's daughter; his fortune is not dependent on anyone else. Of his current family, he knows the Fitzwilliams will be disappointed he has not made a better alliance, but they will bear it, and over time he believes Elizabeth will win them over. Lady Catherine will be livid, but there would be worse things in the world than being shunned by Lady Catherine. Georgiana gave him the most pause, in his consideration – the thought that his marriage might hurt her own prospects was something he thought on most carefully. Ultimately, though, he determined that any loss Georgiana experienced in that quarter would most certainly be outweighed by the benefits of gaining a sister such as Elizabeth, particularly after last summer's grave disappointment.

The lady's family was necessarily the greater barrier. That they had no connexions could be easily enough survived. That the mother and younger sisters showed some of the most blatant disregard for propriety he has ever experienced in society was the real concern. Even the father occasionally showed his manners to be improper, although only in situations when his silly daughters or silly wife had prompted it. To ally himself with such a family, when he would not allow his particular friend to do the same!

He has not been keeping a ledger sheet of the pros and cons of offering marriage to Elizabeth Bennet. But if he had done such a thing, he knows he would have felt the cons to be winning, away from her company, and that they seem wholly surmountable as soon as he is near her again. Her presence in Kent has been his final undoing, and now he knows he cannot leave here without being betrothed to her and have any semblance of peace in his soul.

Lady Catherine has not yet suggested they make up a card table, although he knows she will. She is speaking of more improvements that must be made to the parsonage, more things that Mrs. Collins must do, and it is all so ordinary that he ignores the whole of the conversation to focus on his letter.

"Miss Bennet," Lady Catherine says, eventually, and this, for all his efforts, immediately draws Darcy's attention. "Mr. Collins tells me you have a portion of only one thousand pounds, paid on the death of your mother."

Good God, can she truly be opening such a topic? Dread fills him, but he is unable to speak.

"And yet," Lady Catherine says, "your father's estate brings in two thousand a year. To manage such a paltry dowry on two thousand a year – how very strange."

"Perhaps now you better understand why all of my sisters are out in society, Lady Catherine," Miss Bennet says, with all of her usual strength, but sounding a little shocked at his aunt's ill-bred comments.

"Your father should have put aside a sum every year for your portions. If I had known him I would have urged him most strenuously to do so," Lady Catherine says. "And I would have encouraged you to have a much less cavalier attitude regarding your own accomplishments. How you ever expect to be married with a thousand pounds, merely playing the pianoforte as you do, is beyond me."

Darcy has heard more than his share of improper comments from his aunt, but either these are her most egregious yet, or he is particularly disturbed by them because they are aimed at the woman he holds every affection for. His hands rest heavy on the mahogany before him; he resolves to turn around from the secretary and speak to intervene, but Miss Bennet does so first:

"I hardly think that my lack of ability to draw or paint a table shall dissuade the sort of man I would wish to marry." Miss Bennet says. "Unless he wishes to fill his house with painted tables, although generally I find gentlemen have little true care for those sorts of things."

He cannot help but smile, for she is right; no gentleman of his acquaintance cares at all for a painted table, although they will never be short of praise for a table painted by a female relation, or particular lady they have a fancy for. Neither can he help but wonder if her comment is directed at him, when she speaks of the sort of man she would wish to marry. Has she guessed his intentions? He renews his resolve to speak, in further defense of her, and to attempt to divert the conversation.

"Miss Bennet makes an excellent point," he says. "I am sure the painting of tables is an enjoyable pastime for a lady, but it is far more important for the lady to be well-read, and able to make significant contributions, in conversation."

"Yes, of course, my nephew is right," Lady Catherine says, which quite surprises him. "My dear Anne has not been able to pursue many of the accomplishments other ladies of her age do, owing to her health. But she reads avidly – I daresay she is one of the most well-read young ladies in the country."

This is not quite the diversion in the conversation he hoped for – he knows very well what Lady Catherine is at – but any diversion is a relief. Lady Catherine begins detailing the course of reading she set out for young Anne when she was only six years of age, and Darcy feels the conversation has returned to a safer course.

He cannot return to his letter to Georgiana, though, for he is seized with the need to apologise for his aunt's behaviour, to speak immediately to Elizabeth of all the things he wishes to speak to her of, and before he can think fully about what he is doing, he has pushed his current letter aside, and picked up fresh sheet. Writing, thoughtfully, carefully, and so firmly that his fingers become spattered with little droplets of ink:

_I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you._

_Now that I have said thus, I must explain to why I have not made my feelings and intentions known to you before now. You must know that the expectations of my family, of society, are that I should wed someone far above your station. To marry a woman of little fortune and such family connexions as yours seemed an impossibility, regardless of how much I esteemed your intellect and beauty. Given these scruples, I attempted to forget you, but my feelings would not be repressed._

_Now that I listen to my aunt, I recognise that she has equalled – nay, surpassed – the want of propriety so frequently betrayed by your mother, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. I wish you would know that I find Lady Catherine's behaviour tonight abhorrent, that it is inexcusable for a woman of her station, and that it has caused me to recognise that I also bring a most undesirable connexion to any potential match between the two of us. If your family's behaviour has been silly, my aunt's has been cruel, and this is far worse, in my opinion. I apologise for her as much as I may, although I deeply wish the apology could be given by the lady herself._

_Pemberley already has more than enough painted tables. What I should wish it to contain is a mistress who may entertain our guests with her wit, a kind and caring sister to Georgiana, and a wife who would challenge myself daily with her intelligence. You are the first woman of my acquaintance whom I have seen as being capable of all of these things. For these and so many other reasons, you have been impossible to put out of my mind, and my attachment is too strong for me to follow any other course of action, than to ask you to be my wife._

_Will you marry me? There is a small, quiet grove of trees on the east side of Rosings Park, just beyond the stream – I believe an accomplished walker such as yourself must know it already. I will wait there tomorrow morning for your response, and remain yours,_

_FITZWILLIAM DARCY_

Elizabeth has by now been prevailed upon to play the pianoforte, something that has registered in his subconscious, but he only now becomes fully aware of as he folds and seals the letter, and crumples his barely-started note to Georgiana so that he can throw it into the bin; he will write her a worthy response to her own letter on the morrow.

Colonel Fitzwilliam has, of course, taken up a place near the pianoforte so that he can admire Miss Bennet, and converse with his usual easiness. Soon enough, though, he is called back into the drawing room by Lady Catherine, and at this point, Darcy makes his way over to the pianoforte.

"You have returned to attempt to intimidate me again, is that so, Mr. Darcy?" Miss Bennet says, giving him a smile that very nearly weakens his resolve.

"I have come here to do no such thing," he says, slipping the letter out of his jacket and placing it on the music stand in front of her.

She looks at him with a most puzzled expression on her face, and he can only bow to her and make his retreat, back to where the others are sitting. By the time he takes his seat, the letter is gone from the stand.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **Wow, thank you so much for the kind reception of this little side project of mine! I really appreciate all of the reviews, favourites, and follows.

**Chapter 2**

It takes quite a lot to shock Elizabeth Bennet, or so she had always thought, but she has been through two terrific shocks on this evening. The first, Lady Catherine's wholly inappropriate queries into her dowry, she could see after some reflection as a particularly egregious extension of the lady's previous ill manners.

This second thing, though, this letter Mr. Darcy has just placed in front of her, addressed in a firm hand to "Miss E. Bennet," might be the most impossible thing she has ever beheld. She stares at it in wonderment as he backs away from the pianoforte, and then, glancing around to see that her actions are not noticed by the others, spirits the letter away into her reticule.

What can he mean by it, giving her a letter? She could have refused it – indeed, the proper thing would have been to refuse it – but it is a mystery she must have the answer to. She finishes her song, quite poorly, so distracted is she by all that has happened at Rosings tonight, and then makes her way back to the rest of the party. She feels the letter is burning in some red-hot fire, there in her reticule; it occupies all her attention, and there is nothing she can do to bring her thoughts away from it.

Mercifully, it is only another half-hour before Lady Catherine orders the carriage brought around to take them back to the parsonage. Any longer and she is sure Charlotte, at least, would notice her inability to attend the conversation, and her complete and utter avoidance of looking in Mr. Darcy's direction.

It is only when they have returned to the parsonage, when she has changed into her nightclothes and is sitting on the bed, that the letter can be read, and she pulls it from her reticule with a mixture of strong curiousity and trepidation.

The first time she reads it, she is overwhelmed by the shock. Mr. Darcy, in love with her? Ardently in love with her? So much so that while they all thought he had been writing to his sister, he was instead writing to propose marriage to her?

The second time she reads it, the anger emerges. To degrade her connexions in this way, to speak of her mother, her sisters, her father as being so improper! She leaves the letter on the bed and strides to the window, wishing he might have made his offer in person so that she might have chastised him for it immediately.

The third time she reads it, she is more rational. Returned to the bed, reading quite slowly this time, she acknowledges fully that he has classed his aunt's behaviour below anything seen from her family, and she is reminded of the Netherfield Ball, of all she knows he witnessed there of her family's actions. He may not be tactful, but she cannot deny he is accurate.

She had thought him overly proud (and indeed, still cannot help but think of him as proud, although perhaps she will own him to be _less_ proud than she had thought). She would not have thought him capable of such an apology for his aunt's behaviour, of such a recognition that even though the lady has a title, she is an undesirable connexion. At least so far as he indicates in the letter, Mr. Darcy's idea of a poor connexion is grounded in poor manners, and she cannot disagree with him in this.

Elizabeth returns to the areas of the letter where he is so complimentary to her, and understands her feelings towards him to be softening, just a little. All those times she thought him looking at her to find fault, it had been admiration! She still cannot account for his saying she was _tolerable_ at the assembly, but it is clear that if he meant it at the time, at some point hence his opinion of her must have undergone a very material change.

Not that she is anywhere near accepting him. She has no doubt of his tender feelings towards _her_, but he is still the man who injured poor Mr. Wickham's hopes and wishes so severely. This cannot be tempered by his ardent love or his ten thousand pounds a year or his great estate; it speaks of a significant defect of character that she can never accept in a man she would wish to marry, to behave so cruelly towards a man below him in rank. How can he criticise his aunt for such a thing, when he has done the same himself, and wounded not with words, but by withholding a man's livelihood?

No, she cannot accept him. She knows the grove he speaks of; it is along her favourite walk of the Rosings grounds, and she will go there tomorrow as he requests. She does not like the idea of giving anyone pain, but she is quite resolved in this; it must be done.

The tenth time she reads it, the candle is low and it is nearly dawn, and she is tired but cannot bring herself to attempt sleep. In this reading, she is most struck by the fact that shortly after Lady Catherine had very nearly declared she should never marry, that lady's own nephew, with his ten thousand a year, sat in the very same room and wrote her a marriage proposal. As a lady who delights in the ridiculous, this is a most satisfying source of amusement for someone so exhausted as she.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Mr. Darcy rises even earlier than he usually does, but only because he has had his valet wake him at the determined hour, for he has slept most fitfully. The letter was given to Miss Bennet without a thought of its provoking anything other than acceptance; at its writing, he thought that although she might not yet hold him in the same esteem he did her, she certainly could not refuse such an offer. What lady would turn down the security – nay, far beyond security – of ten thousand pounds a year, and a husband who truly loved her?

Elizabeth Bennet might. He is not entirely sure she will, but she might. This is what he realized in all the time he knew the letter to be in her possession, and thought her to be reading it. If Elizabeth Bennet is unlike every other lady of his acquaintance, she may not be so swayed by the things which would sway those ladies. Miss Bennet is of a most independent mind; there are rumours that Mr. Collins offered for her, and she refused him, and although he does not remotely class himself with his aunt's insipid parson, if she has refused one offer, there is no reason to assume she shall not refuse another.

He has risen early enough that no one else is at the breakfast table, which is how he planned it. He eats what he may, slips out of the house, and makes the walk to the grove. It is a peaceful place, here, one of his favourites on the Rosings grounds, and the only one of his favourites secluded enough for this sort of conversation. There are no man-made benches, but a large fallen tree that has been here for many years provides him with a place to sit. He cannot remain seated, or peaceful, for long, however, and he paces the grove for what seems like hours before she finally arrives.

She looks tired, and he wonders if the letter has caused her as fitful a night as it has him. Still, in the morning sun and with the trees all around her, she appears as she should be, beautiful on a country morning, and he is as enchanted as ever.

"Miss Bennet," he says, bowing. "May I assume you have read my letter?"

"I have, Mr. Darcy, else I would not know to be here," she says, and his stomach sinks. This is not the first statement of a woman who has received his proposal with any semblance of felicity.

"May I ask for your response?" he asks, then thinks to add: "If you are not yet ready to give a response. I will understand. I realise sometimes these matters require deliberation."

"I have had time for deliberation, Mr. Darcy, and I do have a response," she says. "In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. However, in this particular case, I must first express my shock at having received the sentiments at all. I had no notion at all of you thinking I was even tolerable."

Tolerable! With a sinking of all his hopes, he realises she must have heard him at the Meryton assembly. Has her judgement of him been founded on a chance statement made in a foul mood brought on by another letter from Georgiana, and Charles's continual pestering of him, that he must greet the gentlemen of the neighborhood, that he must dine, that he must dance?

"If you refer to a comment which I must assume you overheard, at the Meryton assembly, I will apologise deeply for my behaviour. My circumstances on that day were such that I was not inclined to see favor in anyone or anything, even someone I rapidly came to admire, in later company," he says. "However, I am no idle flatterer, Miss Bennet, and even after that evening I had no desire to raise expectations which I could not meet."

"I can safely say you raised no expectations in me at all, sir. If I had been asked, I would have been rather more wont to say you disliked me, than you liked me," Miss Bennet says. "You have planted no seed of love, you have given no reason for affections on my own side to grow. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone, but I will only marry for love, and I must decline your proposal."

Marry for love! Even now, sinking under disappointment, he admires her. To hold staunchly to such a principle, in her situation, means she is exactly who he has always thought her to be.

"I would beg you not to, if these are the only grounds for your declining. If my attentions have been lacking, will you allow me time in which to pay them, and then make your decision?"

"I must apologise, sir, but I will not."

"Is this all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting? I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why I am thus rejected."

"It is the inconsistency of your character, Mr. Darcy, which leads me to believe I could never form an attachment to you."

Inconsistency of his character! Of all the possible things she could have accused him of – and some, admittedly, rightly so – he would never have imagined inconsistency of character to be among them.

"Miss Bennet, I hope you will elaborate on this inconsistency of character. It is hardly a thing you can accuse a man of, without some further explanation."

"I refer to your apologising for your aunt's behaviour, in speaking of inexcusable topics last night (for which I have been remiss in thanking you; I did appreciate it very much). You condemn your aunt for behaving cruelly towards a woman below her station, and yet you will deny your own inferior his very livelihood."

"You refer to Mr. Wickham," he says, feeling the rage rush up through him. "You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns?"

"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?"

"His misfortunes!" he says, contemptuously. He should have known that somehow Wickham would ruin him here, as well, that he will never stop paying for his association with that man. "Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed."

"And of your infliction," Elizabeth cries, with energy. "You have reduced him to his present state of poverty – comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule, after wondering how I should think you have an inconsistency of character."

"And you make your decision on so important a matter (for at least I consider it to be of the utmost importance, although you may not) on the basis of vile slander. I had thought much better of you, Miss Bennet."

"I have never desired your good opinion," she says, although she looks utterly taken aback and perhaps a little injured, at his statement. "However, if you wish to explain how you believe Mr. Wickham has slandered you, I shall listen."

_How you believe_ – she has made it clear the burden of proof is on him.

"Will you not sit, Miss Bennet?" he says, motioning toward the tree trunk. "I will explain, but this is rather a long story."

She, surprisingly, obliges him by taking a seat.

This is not a story he can tell while sitting, however. Alternately feeling exasperation, and anger, he paces the grove again, in small circles before the log. Telling her, in careful detail, the history of George Wickham's boyhood and his growth into a young man of most vicious propensities, finally coming to the day in which he thought he was rid of the blackguard. When he has finished with this portion of the story, he looks to her to see if his version of events has won her mind.

It does not appear that it has. She looks all astonishment, and waits some time before saying: "I have now heard two very different versions of this history, although they do overlap in some of their particulars. I will not say that I can consider either to be the false one, as yet; I require some time for reflection on the matter."

"Reflection you must have, of course, but this is not yet a narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together, and I hope you will allow me that, first," he says. "I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus, I feel no doubt of your secrecy."

"You have it – of course," she says, looking quite confused.

Now he tells the later, far more painful portion of the story, although at least he has the relief of knowing it did not go as badly as it could have. Wickham did not succeed in persuading Georgiana to elope before he arrived in Ramsgate, thank God. Darcy concludes with this, his tone one of both pain and relief, and then says:

"That is all I have to say on the subject of Mr. Wickham. If you wish to have my version of these events corroborated, I will refer you to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions."

He looks closely at her, and can see she will not apply to Colonel Fitzwilliam. After some time, she says: "Your sister, how does she do now?"

"She is still not well," he says, finally sitting down heavily beside her, exhausted both by lack of sleep and having told this history. "Her new companion, Mrs. Annesley, is beyond all I can ask for in such a role, and assists her recovery with every attention. But Georgiana is still not the young lady she was before the event took place, and I fear it will be a very long time before she is again."

"I hope time will heal the wound," she says. "She is already at a most trying age, without suffering such a deception."

"I hope and pray that it will. I will tell you (although you may not wish to hear it) that I had hoped to see you be the very sort of sister that Georgiana needs at present."

She sighs. "You said before that I might have time for reflection, and I believe that I must have it now. The amount of intelligence that I have received in the last half-day is rather more than I can absorb at present. You asked me earlier for more time in which to pay your attentions; if you are still open to this course, I am willing to follow it."

"I am open to it, and ever will be."

"Then perhaps we may meet here again here every morning during my visit, and continue to speak, and then you may walk me back to the parsonage; it is my favourite walk on these grounds," she says. "However, today I wish to walk back alone. I have quite a lot to think on."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** So this is one of the shortest chapters, and the next the longest (at least of what I've written so far, which is only six chapters – eep!). I'm hoping I'll still be able to publish chapter five next weekend but travel may get in my way.

**Chapter 4**

Elizabeth is exceedingly thankful they have not been invited to Rosings tonight; she does not think she could bear it, to be in company again with him so soon. To think that she should refuse Mr. Darcy, and then rescind her refusal! If anyone would have told her that these would be her actions on this day, she would have boldly denied it, and stated it to be an impossibility.

And yet she has done those things. She knows very well why; there was one thing that had turned the tide, in her opinion of him, and that had been his recounting of Mr. Wickham's seducing of his poor sister. She had not been certain whether to believe the perfidies he had attributed to Mr. Wickham before that; she had heard accounts from both men about the history between the two of them, and had thought that parsing out the real truth would take some time.

Then, however, he had started into the second part of the tale of Wickham's misdoings, in Ramsgate. Elizabeth thought it odd, in the outset, that he should be so careful in noting her silence on the matter, but when he had outlined the true case, she fully understood why. And it was this outlining of the case, it was seeing him far too upset by the telling of it for it to be a lie, that had convinced her of his sincerity.

If the second part of his history with Mr. Wickham is true, it leads her necessarily to the conclusion that the first part must also be true. For her feelings towards Mr. Wickham, its truth must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth; it must reveal her to have acted despicably. She, who prided herself on her discernment! Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of their acquaintance, she has courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned.

There is a sense now of clarity, a feeling that until this moment she had never known herself. Wickham is cast aside in her mind, except a lingering feeling of shame, in believing his stories, and a striking thought that she should write to her father of him; she need not note the source of her intelligence, or include any details that might allow a connection to be made to Miss Darcy, but her father should know of his history as a seducer. She thinks back to the pain on Mr. Darcy's face and is moved again; she cannot bear the thought of the same thing happening to one of her sisters, particularly since in their case there should be no fortune to tempt him into marriage. Lydia must be only a little younger than Georgiana Darcy, Kitty only a little older.

Now, then, she must turn her thoughts to Mr. Darcy. She has been surprised by him so many times in the last four and twenty hours that she feels the foundation of all she had believed about him must be undermined. Most significant in her memory is this complete and most substantial worry for his sister, from a man she had thought to contain none but selfish disdain for the feelings of others. It is worry for his sister, his closest living relation, and not a casual acquaintance, but still, it has driven her to determine that – at the least – he is not the man she thought he was.

This is a very long way from his being a man she would wish to marry – but, she is forced to admit, she can no longer class him among men she would _not_ wish to marry. This conclusion she only now reaches consciously, and it is most painful, for it requires again realising how very wrong she has been in everything, but she knows it to be the reason behind her requesting more time for him to pay his addresses to her.

She will return to the grove tomorrow, and then what? Will Mr. Darcy actually endeavour to make himself agreeable to her? Will he note her shock at learning of his affections towards her and find some way to show them, outside of a letter? Elizabeth has never been seriously courted, unless one counts Mr. Collins (she does not) or Mr. Wickham (she does not, now); Jane is the eldest as well as the beauty of the family, and has received the addresses of most of the eligible young men of their acquaintance since she was fifteen. Now Elizabeth shall undertake a courtship, and a courtship such as this – meeting in secret, in the grove – a courtship, that, if it is ever found out, will likely require her to accept his proposal, to save her reputation.

Yet she knows she is not willing to do this any other way. The thought of his applying formally to her father, of raising the expectations of her mother, who will only embarrass her further, going on and on about his ten thousand a year, seems an impossibility to her. This is the way it must be done – quietly, and yes, secretly.

This reverie continues on through dinner, and it is only when they are in the drawing room that Charlotte remembers there has been a letter come today while Elizabeth was out, from Jane. The letter is produced, and Elizabeth cannot bring herself to be angry at her friend, for her forgetfulness – Elizabeth's mind has been far too occupied to focus on a letter from her sister, anyway. She does not read the letter in the drawing room; she will wait for the privacy of her own room.

Her expectations are right, when she finally reads the letter. Perhaps it is having received her own – wholly unexpected – second proposal of marriage that makes her so attuned to her sister's feelings, but she sees things now that she did not before. There is a listlessness in what Jane writes, a want of that cheerfulness which has been used to characterise her style. Jane, who has always been so fond of London, relates with a complete lack of enthusiasm the new dress she was measured for, a walk in Hyde Park, an evening at the theatre. Elizabeth thinks of Mr. Darcy with a new openness of mind, and yet she knows, were she able to sacrifice the proposal of marriage she has just received, so that Jane instead could receive one from Mr. Bingley, she should do so immediately, and most happily.

She retires for bed early; she is exhausted from having hardly slept the night before. Yet even when she should sleep easily, she cannot help but be alternately occupied between thinking of Mr. Darcy, and how they shall meet tomorrow, and poor Jane, and how she must suffer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Darcy rises well before the rest of the household again, and makes his way to the grove well before she should arrive. He walks there quickly, his chest tight with anticipation. There is still cause for hope, which, at some points during their conversation yesterday, he would have believed to be gone, and yet he still has so very far to go to win her hand.

It was foolish to ever believe that this was a foregone conclusion; to think that he should just propose marriage and Elizabeth Bennet would accept him on account of his fortune and his estate. Many other ladies, perhaps, would have; certainly any of those who have pursued him would have been utterly ecstatic at having been handed his letter. Still, there has been progress, albeit painful progress. She has gone from outright refusing him to requesting time for him to pay his addresses.

Pay his addresses! He does not know how to go about paying addresses; he does not flirt, and he does not flatter. If he could open up to the reason for broaching the subject, he might apply to Colonel Fitzwilliam for advice on these matters. His cousin routinely uses his status as an earl's second son, and the resulting lack of expectations on him from most ladies of his acquaintance, to carry on any number of flirtations; Darcy has even seen him do so with Miss Bennet, on occasion. He sees some humour in the idea of it, of approaching Edward and saying, "I have proposed marriage to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and she has refused me, but then said I might have more time to pay my addresses; will you teach me how to flirt with her?"

Smiling at the thought of what Edward's expression would be, to hear such a thing, he sits on the tree trunk and opens the book he has brought, to better occupy his mind until she should appear.

"Good morning," Miss Bennet says, startling him, for he has become wholly absorbed. "What are you reading?"

"Swift," he says, looking up to see that she once again looks utterly fetching. "Good morning, Miss Bennet. You are looking very well this morning."

"I had not figured you for a novel reader," she says, sitting beside him and looking down at the book, to try to make out the title. "_Gulliver's Travels_?"

"_A Tale of a Tub_," he replies. "Although if you have read _Gulliver's Travels_, you will know it to be far more than your standard novel."

"I have read it, and I will agree with you. I adore satire."

"I would have thought you did. Have you read Sterne?"

"I cannot say that I have."

"Allow me to see if Lady Catherine has a copy of _Tristram Shandy_ in her library. Someone who delights in the absurd so much as you do should not go without reading it."

"I am intrigued, but will she not mind that it is loaned outside of her family?"

"She will never notice its going missing, just as she has likely never noticed its being there in the first place. For all her blustering about reading the other night, she cares not at all for books. The Rosings library has gone to dust since Sir Lewis passed. I never venture into that room without a handkerchief at the ready."

She gives a little chuckle, and he realizes that, although he may not actually be achieving a flirtation, he is at least carrying on a reasonable conversation with her, one with mutual interest on each side.

"I understand your library at Pemberley to be much better cared for," she says.

"I am glad to say that it is. We have been fortunate in my family to have generation after generation care for it. Not only the room, and the volumes within, but perhaps more importantly, to pass on the love of reading, so that the care should come naturally."

"It must be difficult, to be a reader so frequently in company with those who do not share your passion," she says.

"I suspect you struggle with the same," he says, and she nods. "I will admit I am often attempting to recommend something to Colonel Fitzwilliam, or Charles Bingley, and rarely meeting with any success."

Her face inexplicably darkens with this statement, and he can only ask her: "I am sorry, have I said something to offend you?"

"Not consciously, I am sure," she says. "However, you must understand that Mr. Bingley's name occasions pain for anyone in my family."

"Pain?" he asks, feeling already that this conversation is moving into a place where it may only end poorly, but he can hardly leave her statement without a response.

"I am sorry – I know he is your particular friend," Miss Bennet says. "But you must know that Mr. Bingley and, I suspect, his sisters, have been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of my most beloved sister."

He feels his heart sink at this statement, for he has certainly had his share in the ruining she mentions. And yet, that she describes it as ruining at all means that he may have been very wrong in his assessment of Jane Bennet's feelings.

"Miss Bennet, I pray you will elaborate. If there has been some pain done on the part of my friend, I would wish to know, so that I might help to alleviate it, if I may."

"You must already be aware of the particulars of it," she says. "You know that he removed to London, permanently and unexpectedly, leaving her behind in Hertfordshire, quite heartbroken. You may perhaps not have seen her in town, but she was there, and snubbed quite blatantly by Miss Bingley, and thusly forced to conclude that the gentleman in which all her hopes for happiness had laid no longer had any desire to be acquainted with her."

"I have not seen Miss Bennet in town. But I must say, you describe a degree of heartbreak which is far beyond what I would have expected, on observation of your sister. I have always thought her look and manners to be open, cheerful, and engaging, but without any symptom of peculiar regard. She did not seem to be someone whose heart would be easily touched."

"I assure you, sir, the heartbreak is very real. My sister has always been very guarded with her feelings, perhaps more than she should be, but what she felt for Mr. Bingley was very real, and now, on the absence of the return of that affection, I see her sinking lower in every letter she writes."

"If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in error," he says, troubled, rising from the tree trunk in order to pace the grove again. "Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable."

"What do you mean, Mr. Darcy, that you must have been in error?" she asks.

"Disguise of every sort is my abhorrence," he says, "and therefore I must confess to you that I, as well as his sisters, had a role in separating Mr. Bingley from your sister. If you must blame someone for your sister's heartbreak, it must be ourselves, not Mr. Bingley. It took a considerable amount of convincing before he would believe it was in his best interests not to further pursue Miss Bennet."

"His best interests?" she cries. "How can you believe that you have acted in his best interests? I now learn that it was you! _You_ have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other – of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes."

"I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister," he says, sounding far more tranquil than he feels. "From the very moment that I became aware Bingley's attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage, I observed my friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. At the time, I – erroneously, it now appears – believed her to be pleased by the attention, but indifferent to him. I felt it would be a most unhappy connection, for my friend to be trapped in a marriage which was unequal both in fortune and affection."

"Unequal in fortune I cannot deny it would have been," Elizabeth says. "But it most certainly would not have been unequal in affection. You, who would propose marriage to myself in a most completely surprising letter, _should_ understand better than most that not everyone allows their true feelings to reach their countenance, or affect their behaviour. How can you be so proud as to think yourself superior in the knowledge of the feelings of a new acquaintance, when you cannot even show your own?"

"I fully understand your point," he says. "If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it was unknowingly done, and I will make my apologies."

"Your apology is not enough, sir, for what you have done. It will not undo the damage," she says. "Tell me, was Mr. Bingley even aware of my sister's being in town?"

"He was not, and is even yet ignorant of it. I am not entirely satisfied with my conduct in this part of the affair; I will admit that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in town. That they might have met without ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger."

"How could you!" she exclaims, and he watches a solitary tear stream down her face, followed by another. "You, who would say that disguise of every sort is your abhorrence, did in fact enact a most cruel disguise. You, who cannot understand how I could see inconsistencies in your character, would do this. Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner, you would have saved your supposed friend and my sister from misery of the acutest kind."

She could not have stung him more if she had slapped him across the face. _Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner._ These words are accompanied by a strange raw pain in his breast that he recognises must be the source of the word _heartbreak_. Is this what Jane Bennet feels? Is this what he has done to Charles?

Miss Bennet looks at him with a face wet with tears, but her eyes are all challenge. He pulls out his handkerchief and offers it to her – this, at least, she must see as gentlemanlike – but she shakes her head no.

"I want nothing of yours," Miss Bennet says, rising from the tree trunk. "I cannot stay in your company any longer today. I will walk back to the parsonage by myself."

She gives him the tiniest of bobs, and strides across the grove. She has not refused his offer of marriage, not formally, but he is fairly certain this is her refusal. She had indicated they should meet here every morning, but he suspects she will not be back tomorrow.

"Miss Bennet! Miss Bennet, please wait a moment!" he calls out, and she does, at least, stop and turn to face him. "Your sister, where does she stay, while she is in town?"

"Number 12 Gracechurch Street," she says. Adding, in a challenging tone: "In Cheapside."

"Thank you." He will not rise to her challenge, and he gives her a deep, most proper bow. "I will not bid you good day, for I understand this conversation must necessarily affect the remainder of your day, but I do hope you shall be restored to happiness and wellness."

She curtsies, slightly more deeply this time, and walks off. Darcy allows himself to remain in the grove for some time, attempting to calm his spirits before making the walk back to the house. Had he behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner! She could not have chosen a more striking insult for him, if she had tried. He, who was raised from boyhood to always behave as a gentleman. He, whose father continually impressed on him the importance of this, as a first son, as the young man who would someday be master of Pemberley, of acting always as he should.

His father gave him good principles, and he has always assumed that he has been following them, that of any criticisms that might be railed against him, not being gentlemanlike should never be among them. And yet Elizabeth Bennet is right; he has acted deceitfully. She has accused him of other things, as well, of being proud and thinking himself in superior knowledge of others. She has said twice – once perhaps correctly – that he suffered from inconsistency of character. She has told him that she heard him say she was tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him to dance.

There is at least some truth in all of these; she certainly has cause to say he has not acted as a gentleman should, and this realisation hits him in another wave of the most horrific pain in his breast. He has _not_ followed his father's good principles; he has allowed his temper to rule him, and he has been proud, conceited, and even deceitful. He has acted in ways that would greatly disappoint his father, if that excellent man had lived to see them, and this is even without consideration of his failures concerning his sister. He sinks to a seat on the tree trunk, and allows himself a lengthy period of despondency, before finally leaving the grove.

These other failures will take longer to correct, but there is something that may be done now, at least, some action and hopefully some accomplishment that will make him feel progress. He will write an express to Charles; he has been planning to do this since he called out to Miss Bennet, to ask her sister's address in town. If he has failed his friend through deception, then the deception must be undone, as soon as it may be.

This letter, when he has snuck in through the back hallways of Rosings to his apartment, and readied his writing things, does not come so easily as his letter to Miss Bennet did, and he finds himself staring at the blank page for some time before finally summoning the will to write:

_My Dear Sir,_

_Although I was not asked explicitly to keep what I am about to relate to you in confidence, I suspect that the confidence was implicit in its telling, and that I am about to break it. With that said, I hope the end shall justify the means for all of the parties involved, and that you will forgive me for what I am about to relate._

_Miss Elizabeth Bennet is here in Kent, visiting with the Collinses; you will recall her friend Charlotte Lucas is lately Mrs. Collins, and that Mr. Collins is Miss Bennet's cousin. We have met often through Lady Catherine, who invites them for society at Rosings with some frequency._

_In speaking with Miss Elizabeth, she indicated to me that your departure from Netherfield occasioned a great deal of pain on her elder sister, far more pain than I should have expected. I am reminded by Miss Elizabeth that there are those in this world who do not openly show even the deepest of feelings. It seems Miss Bennet is among them, and my that observation of her was not sufficient to understand her heart. I will no longer make an attempt to conjecture as to the depth of her affections, except to say that I have been in error, and that you would do best to make your own judgement as to whether you have reached her heart._

_Do not pack your trunks for Netherfield, however. Miss Bennet has been in town these three months; I was aware of this, and thought it best to keep her presence from you. I thought it would be dangerous for you to see her, for I suspected you still had at least some degree of regard for Miss Bennet. It was deceitful, and most improper, and I fear it made far more egregious my earlier belief that I was a better reader of Miss Bennet's affections than you, by continuing to separate those who should not have been separated. I apologise, and have only in my defense to say that I thought I was acting in your best interest._

_Miss Bennet is staying at 12 Gracechurch Street, in Cheapside. Let it be your own choice as to whether to call on her. I expect you would be well-received, if you do, once you explain you have only just learned of her being in town._

_I hope when you have read this, you will still consider among your friends, _

_FITZWILLIAM DARCY_

The letter is hastily sanded, and given to the butler to be posted express, and then Darcy makes his way to the dusty Rosings library. He has any number of corrections still to make, and he needs a quiet place in which to think on how to make them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Elizabeth does not go to the grove the next morning. Although she is not so furious as she was yesterday, she is not nearly ready to see him. With no means that would be considered proper to get word to Mr. Darcy, she simply does not go.

By late afternoon, she is regretting this so much that she tells the Collinses she has changed her mind about having a walk, and makes her way out to the grove. If he was here, however, (and she expects he was) he is gone by now, and she feels poorly about this. It is not that she wanted to see him – she still feels too much agitation for that. But she, who has called him out on all manner of poor behaviour, has failed to keep a commitment. This is rudeness, there is no avoiding calling it what it is; she has been rude to someone who harbours a very deep regard for her.

She has a difficult time remembering this regard, when she speaks with him. The plan had been for them to spend some time together, to allow him time to attempt to gain her affections, and yet it seemed they could not do so without falling into argument. She had accused him, rightly so, of several ill-judged actions that gave pain to others, but yet had not considered that her continuing judgements on his character must necessarily cause him pain.

He has apologised for Lady Catherine's cruelty in demeaning her dowry. She has, wrongly, accused him of cruelty in depriving a man of his livelihood, something she thought would have been far worse. Where, though, in this range of cruelty, does Elizabeth herself fall, in not being sensitive to his heart?

When she converses with him on topics that raise her passion, she can only see his failures, and yet when she is away from him, her own failures come trickling back into her consciousness. Has she not been as misled by Mr. Wickham as he was by Jane? They, both of them, believed themselves to be great readers of character, and they each have failed. And has he not admitted himself to be in error, has he not indicated he was not satisfied in his conduct? These are not the actions of a proud man, and yet she has accused him of precisely that; for his apologies he should have been rewarded, and she has instead responded with outrage.

And has he not asked where Jane is staying in town? Would he do so for no other purpose than to inform Charles Bingley of her being there, no other reason than to attempt to make amends for his error? The thought of this fills her with hope, and she tamps it down as best she can. She would have no greater wish than Charles Bingley's company being restored to her sister, than the two of them to continue on as they had before, on what seemed it could only be a path to marriage. But there is no telling how Mr. Bingley will react to whatever Mr. Darcy chooses to tell him; Mr. Bingley might have been entirely trained out of his regard for Jane, now, and there is no guarantee he will ever recover it.

She considers all of these things on her walk back to the parsonage, and upon her arrival there, is reminded that they are for Rosings after dinner, for tea. In her present state of agitation, she has entirely forgotten the invitation, and now she worries over being in company with Mr. Darcy, after having snubbed him this morning. Such a situation cannot occur without awkwardness, although perhaps this is an opportunity for her to make some manner of atonement for her absence at the grove.

They enter the house in the level of pomp and grandeur required by Lady Catherine; announced most formally by her butler and left to make the deepest bows and curtsies before being acknowledged by the lady of the house. Mr. Collins takes a most inappropriate level of enjoyment from this, and spends the first quarter-hour of their being there fawning over his patroness for the invitation, while poor Charlotte attempts to temper his enthusiasm to something more appropriate for their rank in society, for they are not _this_ far below Lady Catherine.

During all of this, during the time they all take their seats within Rosing's large drawing-room, Elizabeth is painfully aware of Mr. Darcy's presence, of his every movement. He greets their entrance with a most polite bow, but retains his usual position at one of the room's windows. He looks across the room at Elizabeth, and she recognizes that a gaze she might before have assumed to be critical, now looks to her to be one marked with an expression of both fondness and sadness. She feels now, fully, the pain of having caused another pain, and she attempts to meet his gaze with some sympathy, although she finds it is too intense for her to look at him for long, and eventually must avert her eyes. She, alone, has caused a gentleman this pain.

The party continues on for another quarter-hour in a most insipid manner, and then, thankfully, the arrival of the tea and refreshments brings the opportunity for the group to rearrange themselves, and Elizabeth, though discomfited by it, puts in some effort to ensure that she holds the place nearest Mr. Darcy, and thus sits there in her chair, sipping at her tea.

"Miss Bennet," he says, after some time, leaning down beside her and proffering her a book. "I believe you had interest in borrowing this."

Elizabeth takes the book from his hand with a little unexpected thrill. _The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman_. So he has remembered their conversation from the beginning of yesterday morning, that brief time when her ire had not been raised, and it seemed wholly conceivable that they should carry on a conversation with mutual interest.

"What is that book there, that you loan to Miss Bennet?" Lady Catherine asks, and Elizabeth feels her spirits sink, at Lady Catherine's asking. This book is a topic for the grove; it is a topic for their secret space, and she realizes that if he had any confidence at all of her returning there, he surely would have given this to her there, instead of now, in the midst of Lady Catherine's large drawing-room.

"_Tristram Shandy_," Mr. Darcy says, simply, and Elizabeth sees this tactic is effective.

They all nod knowingly – Lady Catherine even says, "Oh yes, of course, _Tristram Shandy, _I am glad that she borrows it, for surely she shall have no other access to it" – but Elizabeth is quite certain none of the rest of them has actually read it, by their expressions.

Elizabeth takes up the book and keeps it close to her, throughout the remainder of the evening. Despite her snub of him, he has shown a willingness to continue to engage with her, to continue to try to capture her affections, even when she has behaved most abominably towards him, and if she might hold this symbol of his efforts high, if she might show him that she shall most certainly read it, she will.

She has no opportunities to pass any other indications to him after they have been divided up into card tables, but as the evening closes, as they are all taking leave, and those who are able-bodied and of appropriate station in the Rosings household – namely, Lady Catherine, Mr. Darcy, and Colonel Fitzwilliam – have lined up to grant them their good-bye from the great house, she sees what she has wished for. As the trio takes their bows and curtsies from the parsonage guests, Elizabeth takes particular pause in front of Mr. Darcy, meets his eye, and mouths, "tomorrow," attempting to impart with her expression that which cannot be communicated with words.

As she is assisted into Lady Catherine's carriage with her cousin's usual level of obsequiousness, with the book still in her hand, it is Mr. Darcy who dominates Elizabeth's mind. She is torn between sympathy, for the pain she has caused him, and serious recognition that he continues to pay her attentions, that he is a most handsome man who never fails to raise a passionate response in her, regardless of what the topic is.

The carriage ride to the parsonage is short, and not quite enough time for the realisation that has been growing within Elizabeth to form fully. It must follow her up the stairs and into the guest room she occupies, it must wait for her to undress and blow out the candle. For Elizabeth has reached some level of perception, as it regards this suitor of hers; she has finally understood that whatever her feelings towards Mr. Darcy are, they are passionate, they are intense, they are occasionally even overwhelming, or concerning. The one thing they certainly are not is indifferent.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Darcy had found himself too distraught the day before to attend to his correspondence – something very far from his nature and most disturbing to him – and so he reads it in the grove as he waits for her.

That he knows he waits for her has put him in a far better state of mind, today; with one word last night, not even spoken aloud, she had restored him to hope. _Tomorrow_. Even before that moment, he had seen a change in her behaviour towards him, a certain kindness in her manner and perhaps sympathy in her countenance. He could not help but wonder if she felt some amount of remorse for having chastised him as thoroughly as she did – although he had deserved it – but he would not allow himself to believe she would return to this place until he had seen it upon her own lips.

Thinking about Miss Bennet's lips is dangerous, and so he returns to his letter, which has more than enough to occupy and vex his mind. He is not so focused on it that he misses her entrance into the grove, this time, for he sees her stride in, her cheeks rosy from the exercise and a smile on her face that seems almost apologetic.

"Mr. Darcy, I am sorry that I was not here yesterday. I did not yet feel ready to speak with you again, but it was rude and unkind of me to miss our appointment. I hope you did not wait here long."

He did wait – six hours, he waited – but he will not tell her this. "I did not expect you to come yesterday, Miss Bennet. I am thankful you did today, and I am hopeful that I may make amends for my behaviour towards my friend and your sister."

"Let us not speak of that today," she says. "You have apologised for your behaviour, and I suspect taken some action to make your amends – " he nods here, to confirm what she says " – and I can ask of no more from you, on that topic."

"What would you wish to talk about, then?"

"Perhaps the letter you read, if it is of a nature you may share," she says, taking a seat beside him on the fallen tree.

"It is, although I am not sure how interesting you may find it."

"I shall only be able to pass judgement on its interestingness, or lack thereof, if you tell me of it."

"Well, then, it is a letter from my steward, at Pemberley – Mr. Quimby," he says. "Two of my tenant families – the Aldens and the Coopers – have been engaged in a dispute over the field that borders their farms. I had always assumed it to belong to the Coopers's farm, but some relative of Mr. Alden's has found an old drawing done by his grandfather, that indicates his grandfather worked that field as well as the others on their present farm. The relative sent it to the Aldens, and they have been in an uproar since. Mr. Alden plowed the field, and very nearly came to blows with Mr. Cooper. We must decide who will be allowed to plant it before it is too late."

"Does your estate not have records of this sort of thing?" she looks at him with the same skepticism he felt, upon reading Quimby's first letter on the subject.

"It should, but it seems when old Wickham was in his twilight years, he was not quite so capable in his job as he had been in his younger days. The land surveys of those farms have been misfiled, if not lost entirely, and poor Quimby has been tearing apart his study, my own study, and the library to try to find them, as yet to no avail."

"As master of the estate, can you not just decide who shall get the field, and adjust their rents accordingly, if needed?"

"I can, and I shall if I must. In this case, however, I must admit I would rather allow precedence to make the decision for me, if I may. I do not like coming down as an arbiter in a matter that will affect the livelihoods of each of them."

"Is there one family which would be better, from the estate's standpoint?"

"Yes, that would be the Aldens. They have three sons, to help work the land. But the poor Coopers have four daughters, and I do not know if they can keep them all in any degree of comfort, if they lose the field. And the eldest daughter brings a complication which I have not yet mentioned. It seems she and the eldest Alden son have formed a romantic attachment, and now Quimby writes that the Alden boy has proposed marriage and been accepted, but there is so much ill blood between the families that Mr. Cooper will not consent to the match. I half fear Quimby's next letter is going to tell me they have stolen a horse and eloped, and their fathers are at each other with rifles."

"Mr. Darcy, are you quite certain your tenants are the Aldens and the Coopers, and not the Montagues and Capulets?"

He chuckles – the first time he has seen any sort of humour in this whole situation. "I hope dearly this shall not end in the way _that_ did."

"Do you think there is any chance of Mr. Cooper being brought around to the marriage? If the families were united by marriage, perhaps they would be less likely to be at odds."

"I am not sure. I should like to speak with him, and Mr. Alden – I hate attempting to sort these things out by correspondence. If I am required to return to Pemberley, I must beg your assistance in finding some other way in which we might continue this – courtship. That is, if you wish it. We shall have some time before I would need to take my leave, though – you need not make that decision now."

"I shall wait, then," she says. "I do not envy you your predicament, if you are required to choose between the families. And I did find this topic to be quite interesting, although I must admit I had rather hoped you had a letter from your sister, and in it news that she is doing better."

"I have not had her response back to my last, yet," he sighs. "I expect it will be much the same as her last, however. Her struggles are likely to be of longer duration. She has always been shy by nature, and any confidence she had was utterly dashed by learning Wickham wished to use her for her inheritance."

"I do not know how any man could attempt to use a young, innocent girl like that," she says. "I am ashamed at ever thinking good of him. I wish there was something I might do, to help bring your sister relief."

"There is, perhaps. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance, if ever the opportunity arises? Regardless of your decision in our own matter, I should like for you to be friends. I believe your acquaintance would do her a great deal of good."

"Of course, I should very much like to meet her, if I may."

"Thank you, Miss Bennet, that means a great deal to me. Georgiana has acquaintances her age, but they are all her old school friends – quite a competitive set. I do not know that I can say she has any true friends, outside of our family, but I know that you would be sincere to her, and I am certain she would see that sincerity, and value it."

They sit in silence for some time after this, although it is not uncomfortable. Darcy checks his watch, finally, and is surprised to learn it is eleven-thirty, far later than he had expected. He is not quite certain that anything of this conversation can be considered an advance, in the way of romance, but he has very much enjoyed the time, and believes she may have as well. He does not usually discuss affairs of his estate with others – he is supposed to be authoritative, and infallible, in his decisions – and it has been quite refreshing to talk the matter through with Miss Bennet. Rather like he might always do, if she will consent to becoming his wife, he thinks, with a sharp pang of fear that she still will not.

"It is eleven-thirty," he says. "Do you need to return to the parsonage?"

"Oh my, I had not realized how the time had gone. Yes, I should be returning." And then, almost shyly, "Will you walk with me there?"

Mr. Darcy has had his arm taken up by any number of ladies – both those he has offered to escort, and those who have taken it without his asking (with Miss Bingley the most frequent offender, in the latter category). None have given him the thrill he feels at Elizabeth's delicate, slender fingers coming to rest there.

They are both strong walkers, so that they cover the distance quickly, and converse on little other than the estate they walk through. It is pleasant conversation, however; they point out favourite elements of the scenery, and he speaks a little of his and Colonel Fitzwilliam's role in helping their aunt manage the estate. Too soon, it seems, they have reached the parsonage gate.

"Good day to you, Mr. Darcy," she says, then softly, "I shall see you tomorrow."

"Yes, tomorrow. Good day to you, Miss Bennet."

She has already gone through the gate when he decides he must say something more; such a tepid goodbye is not one that a suitor should be making.

"Miss Bennet – wait." She halts, and turns back toward him. "Miss Bennet, I have been wanting to tell you for some time – you have very fine eyes." He says it in a manner that could not be less flirtatious, indeed he has heard people converse about the weather in a more passionate tone of voice. He has said it clumsily, but he has said it, at least.

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy," she says, looking at him quizzically. She seems on the verge of some witty rejoinder – _Mr. Darcy, that sounded dangerously like a compliment_, perhaps – but she does not say anything else, she merely smiles, and turns to walk towards the house.


	8. Chapter 8

So I am in full force writer's block on this one. I should have time to write this weekend and am hoping something breaks loose. If it doesn't, though, it may be awhile before my next update. I know how I want this to end, but there's a lot of smushiness in my brain leading up to the ending currently.

**Chapter 8**

_I have been wanting to tell you – you have very fine eyes._

Elizabeth thinks of this statement terribly often, during the remainder of her day. She thinks of it with wry smiles at how distinctly unromantic a tone in which it was uttered. She thinks of it as she looks at her eyes in the mirror in her bedchamber, and wonders what it is that Mr. Darcy thinks so fine about them. Mostly, however, she thinks of the man who uttered it, and believes she begins to understand him better.

He had described his sister as shy, but here was he, utterly discomfited by the giving of a simple (although very nice) compliment to a lady he had already proposed marriage to. Of all the hauteur she had observed in him, how much was simply natural reserve, and a fear of being exposed as awkward, if he should speak more to those who are not familiar to him?

His compliment, when given, was simple, and clearly sincere. He could have flattered her all the time they were in the grove, like other gentlemen have done so often to Jane, but he did not. This is partly because she suspects he was not capable of it – and she must admit she finds this a little endearing – but more because he seemed to wish to engage her in a real conversation. He had told her of his predicament with the Aldens and the Coopers with a respect for her thoughts on the matter, something she felt few (if any) gentlemen of her acquaintance would do.

And that it was a predicament at all spoke a great deal about him. Elizabeth had thought he saw others as being beneath him – his tenants, certainly, were beneath him, insofar as society saw them – but he was genuinely concerned about making the right decision, and had a more than healthy respect for the impact it would have on those families' lives. Elizabeth could not deny that were her father faced with a similar situation at Longbourn, he would not have given it nearly the same amount of deliberation, nor would he have considered curtailing a visit to deal with the matter.

Elizabeth had felt a sharp, unexpected degree of concern, when he mentioned the possibility of his needing to return to Pemberley. She could not give him a _yes_, to his offer of marriage, yet neither was she ready to be pressured into a hasty _no, _borne out of his need to depart her company. It had been a relief, then, when he indicated he wished their courtship (such as it is) to continue. How they might make this happen, she is not sure. Perhaps they may manage to meet in London, or perhaps as part of the amends they spoke of today, Mr. Bingley shall return to Netherfield. She hopes fervently that the latter is true.

_I have been wanting to tell you – you have very fine eyes._

Elizabeth must continue to think of his compliment through the course of the next day, for she wakes to find a steady spring rain falling, and it does not let up. They did not discuss the possibility of weather impacting their mornings in the grove, but no one can be expected to go out in this – Charlotte would think her mad if she attempted a walk now. This makes her spirits lower than she would have expected, and she begins reading _Tristram Shandy_, in the hopes that the weather will be better tomorrow, and it will give them something to discuss. She is pleased to find that he is right – it is perhaps the most absurd story she has ever read, and she enjoys it very much, the way the prose loops and spins and runs away from her, although parts of it make her blush.

"You are very devoted to that book," Charlotte says, unexpectedly standing beside Elizabeth's chair in the sitting room. "Perhaps you might want to read this instead, however. Another letter from your sister just arrived."

"Oh, thank you, Charlotte," Elizabeth takes the letter from her with some hesitancy – it is rather soon for Jane to write again, particularly since she could not have received Elizabeth's reply to her last before she had written this letter. Thankfully, only Charlotte and Maria are in the sitting room with her, so Elizabeth feels comfortable opening the letter and reading:

_My dear sister,_

_Since writing my last, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and wonderful nature. I know that you have been in company with Mr. Darcy at Rosings, and I believe you must have said something to him of my being in town. He, in turn, wrote to Mr. Bingley, and Mr. Bingley called on us the very day he received the letter._

_He was totally ignorant of my being in town until Mr. Darcy's letter! I had not believed it possible, but he apologised most genuinely for not knowing, and not calling. I did not mention my calling on his sisters, or Miss Bingley's returning my call; I thought it impolite. He may learn of it from them, or he may already know of it, but I cannot doubt that his ignorance of my being here must have been his sister's doing. _

_Mr. Bingley stayed for nearly an hour, and he was most attentive to me. Before he left, my aunt invited him to dine with us tomorrow evening, and he accepted readily, so I already have the assurance that I shall be in his company again soon. Oh, Lizzy, I dare not hope for too much, but things seem as they always were between us. I am beyond happiness at being returned to his acquaintance! _

_I cannot thank you, or Mr. Darcy, enough for the service you have done me. I suppose we shall never have a chance to thank Mr. Darcy; it is not the sort of thing I expect you could speak openly of, to him. Still, it is a kindness I never would have expected from someone so proud as him. I believe I must think differently of him, now. I wonder if you do, as well?_

_Your most happy and devoted sister,_

_JANE_

Elizabeth reads her sister's letter with a most complete thrill of happiness. Everything she had hoped for, in thinking Mr. Darcy should make amends for his actions, has happened, the exception being the final event which would culminate Elizabeth's wishes for her sister – Mr. Bingley's asking for her hand in marriage. Still, it has come about very quickly. Elizabeth thinks through the timing of the post, and realises Mr. Darcy must have sent his own missive to Mr. Bingley express.

This thought necessarily returns her mind to the gentleman who has brought about this happiest turn of events. It would be rather nice, she thinks, to be married to Mr. Bingley's particular friend, if Bingley does indeed marry her sister. If friends already so intimate were to marry sisters, surely that would only increase the intimacy between the families. She and Jane might not see each other so frequently as they do now, but they should still have many opportunities to be together, and it is not as though fortune should be a barrier to their travelling to visit.

Elizabeth realises, flushing, that she has spent some time ruminating on her intimacy with Jane as a married woman, fully assuming a marriage to Mr. Darcy. She has thought of herself in a very fine coach, sitting beside him, conversing on the same sorts of topics they do in the grove, or perhaps both of them reading, quietly. She has thought of herself married to Mr. Darcy, and it has not at all been an unpleasant thought.

But does she love him? This is not yet a question she can answer with any certainty. She has ruled out indifference in the myriad range of feelings she experiences, when it comes to him. Love, however, is a tricky one to identify; she does not know that she has felt it, at her young age, and she does not know how she shall identify it, if love does emerge from this cauldron of feelings he stirs. In this much she is decided, however: she shall give it every opportunity.


	9. Chapter 9

And the writer's block broke loose, finally! This chapter did the trick and I can see my way to the end now, so I believe I will be finishing this up in the next few weeks and then focusing all my attentions on the sequel to "A Constant Love."

**Chapter 9**

Darcy reaches the grove with an agitation of mind that might have disturbed him, a fortnight ago. He can hardly wait for Miss Bennet to arrive here, and this is in part because their last meeting went so well, and in part because he has used the rainy day to work through the problem of his tenants. He believes he has arrived at a solution, and he is all anticipation to hear what Miss Bennet thinks of it.

This is a new thing for him, this rush of all-encompassing nervousness, this tremendous highness of spirit, and he cannot help but allow it to spill over into his greeting to Miss Bennet, when she does finally arrive.

"Good day to you, Miss Bennet! How do you do?" he says, rather more like Charles Bingley might have done, eager and puppyish.

"I am well, Mr. Darcy," she says, her countenance marked with skepticism. "And it seems you are well, also?"

"I am very well – I believe I have reached a solution, for the problem with my tenants," he says. "Will you hear it, and tell me what you think?"

"Of course," she says. "I must admit I have been turning it over in my mind as well, but I have not come up with anything."

"But you are the one who put me on the solution," he says. "It was you who noted that a marriage between the two families might create unity."

"It did not seem likely that Mr. Cooper would consent to the match, though."

"In his present situation, it would not do him much good, were he to consent to the match and lose the field, for he would still have three daughters to feed. But if I take an additional daughter on as a maid in the house, there are only two daughters remaining, whom he is responsible for."

"Do you have need of another maid?"

"No, but I can afford another maid. I do not keep the house so fully staffed as it was when both of my parents lived." He will not mention that he hopes they will need to take on additional staff, with a new Mrs. Darcy in place as Pemberley's mistress, but something in her look makes him think she must have realised this.

"So the newly married couple will live with the Aldens, and the Aldens will get the field, in exchange for having another mouth to feed?"

"Not quite. I also have an elderly tenant, Mr. Jackson. Usually when my tenants reach the age where they have difficulty working the land, they have family who are able to take over the lease, and they may live out their days with them. Some give up the lease entirely and move in with relatives elsewhere. But Jackson has no one – not even a cousin has survived him. I cannot bring myself to turn him out of his home, but he is too old to work the land to the return it can bring. I have been trying to determine for the past year or so what should be done about him."

"So your Romeo and Juliet will move in with Mr. Jackson, and in exchange for the lease when he finally passes, they shall help him work the land, and care for him in his old age," Elizabeth says, her face looking as pleased as he is, by how neatly it may work out, to the benefit of all involved. "And now that the Aldens have one less son to work their land, let me guess – you will split the field in half?"

"My God, you have such quickness of mind. It took me the better part of a day to arrive at this plan."

It is not an intended compliment; it slips out without thought. Yet it seems to have more impact than anything he might have planned out, carefully, in the course of that rainy day. Elizabeth blushes, averts her gaze, and says:

"No one has ever said anything like that to me, before."

"Perhaps no one has said it, but surely I cannot be the first to think it," he says, as if defending her to all those who have _not_ spoken before him, and indeed he is thinking more of them than of complimenting her, when he adds: "You are the most intelligent lady of my acquaintance, and I might add, one of the handsomest."

These compliments – wholly accidental, wholly unplanned – do not sit well with her. She looks down again, she looks up just long enough for him to see there are tears in her eyes, and then she rises from the tree trunk and strides across the grove, standing so that her back is to him.

"Miss Bennet, I am sorry if I have said something to upset you – "

"Please do not speak," she says. "Please – just, I just need a moment to think."

Gone are his heightened spirits, at this statement. All he feels now is pain and confusion, as he scours every phrase he has spoken since she arrived at the grove, seeking to find what could have done this to her. He can think of nothing that should have affected her so, and is forced to conclude that there must be something else which has upset her, but that something he said has reminded her of it. He would ask what it is, if there is anything he may do to be of assistance, but she has asked him to be silent, and if that is her wish, he will do so as long as she wishes it.

How long he watches her stand there, shoulders square, head bowed, wholly unmoving, he does not know. There is no thought, during this time, no movement on his own part, only that ache, returned to his chest, as he watches her. When thought finally comes, it is only that whatever it is, whatever has caused this, he will do everything in his power to put it right.

Finally, finally, she turns around, and wipes a tear from her face.

"I accept your proposal, Mr. Darcy," she says. "It would make me quite happy to marry you."

Of all the things he might have conjectured she would say, this is not one of them. It is so wholly unexpected that for some period of time he can only gape at her, and wonder if perhaps he is losing his mind.

"Miss Bennet, you did just say – you did just say you accepted my proposal, did you not?"

"I did – I am sorry, that must have been rather unexpected."

"Indeed it was, and I must note you seem rather more upset than happy. As happy as your hand in marriage would make me, you told me you would only marry for love, and I must admit I hope you have not changed your mind, now."

"It is only my own agitation at not knowing myself until now," she says. "I told you that you had planted no seed of love, and when you said those things just now, I realized that there had been a fine, strong sapling growing for some time, and I had only just noticed it."

"I have had good very luck with saplings, at Pemberley," he says, regretting it immediately, for it seems flippant, and foolish, but he reaches his hand out to her anyway, and she laughs, a soft, rippling little laugh, and extends her own hand. It is wet and salty under his lips, and it comes with the greatest rush of relief, and the return of his previous high spirits, this time marked with a feeling that is very nearly giddiness, and it takes all of his efforts not to kiss her lips, as well. He settles for her hand, again, and she says:

"Is this how you care for all your saplings, sir?"

"Only the most precious one."

"That is a relief. I had rather thought I should marry you and then find you outside, kissing the branches of all your trees, and that is behaviour I would find rather more odd than preferable, in a husband."

She says it with an arch smile, she says it seeming wholly recovered from her earlier turmoil, for she says it with her eyes sparkling, and he can no longer resist closing the distance to her lips. Her sweet, soft lips. She is startled at first, but then responds, and there can be nothing more delightful than this moment.

He pulls away before she does, and says: "We can meet here no longer."

"Why?"

"Because I would wish to do that again, and the next time we kiss should be in a church, as much as I dislike being deprived of your company in this way."

"You know, there is far more to you than you let on to the world, Mr. Darcy," she says. "But as much as I liked your kiss, I suppose it is for the best that I look forward to my next on our wedding day."

She blushes prettily, and he wants to kiss her again, so he turns his mind to what he knows will be his best distraction: the structured order of business yet to be done.

"I will write Quimby with my proposal for the tenants, and have him put it to them; my hope is that they will all see the merit in it, and agree to it, but if not, I believe I still shall have to go to Pemberley and work at convincing them myself. If that is the case, I shall stop at Longbourn during the journey, to ask your father for your hand."

"He will be quite shocked by your application. It might be best if you also carried a note from me, assuring him of my affections and desire for the match."

"That is a good thought – I wondered what my reception would be like."

"Awkward, at first, I am sure, but once my mother knows you intend to marry one of her daughters, you will be her favourite person in the world. Still, I would rather I be there, if it is at all possible."

"There is no reason to rush – " there is, of course, but only in his own mind, for he wishes her hand fully secure as soon as possible " – I may always return from Pemberley when you are once again at home. I am hopeful that I do not need to go there at all, and then I may remain at Rosings for as long as you are here. My aunt Catherine will see it as a great compliment to her."

"I am sure she will," she says, laughing.

"Even if we may not meet here, I shall call on you every day at the parsonage, and encourage Lady Catherine in her invitations to your cousin, so it is not as though we will be apart," he says. "We may write each other now, as well, since we are engaged."

"I believe one of us already began, with the writing, so I suppose it is my turn to write you."

"I only pray your letter does not contain poetry, for I know how you feel about that, and I shall know what you are about."

"I am glad you remembered, and I can safely assume your own letters will be free of any ill-timed verse."

He thinks this how it is to be, when they are married – this good-natured teasing, and banter, these little shared smiles, and looks, and he feels the giddiness overtake him again. When he feels it verge into danger of wishing to kiss her again, he quells his desire to stay here in the grove with her all day, and asks her if she is ready to walk back.

With what joy does he feel her take up his arm? With what joy do they make the walk along the Rosings grounds, on such a beautiful spring morning, with the birds chirping all around them, and all the soft beginnings of spring before their eyes? With what joy do they reach the gate for the parsonage, Darcy merely clutching her hand this time, before she opens the gate and makes her way in, looking back to him with her lovely, lingering eyes?

With a joy that seemed impossible, at least to Darcy, with a joy beyond what would have been if she had immediately accepted his proposal. He has been chastised by her, and he has seen all of the ways in which he needs to improve himself – improvements which are not complete, but at least quite well begun – he has fought for her, and it seems that somehow he has won.

Still, a sapling. For all their teasing and joking over Elizabeth's metaphor, she has indicated her feelings for him to be something substantial, something true, but still something which can be felled by a bad storm or a deep spring freeze. He vows never to let such a thing happen; he vows to grow her love into a great strong tree, with its deep roots and thick, stout branches – a hundred-year tree, his father used to call them.

There is little that could dampen his mood, upon arriving back at Rosings; there is little even Lady Catherine could muster that should give him pause, in his current elevated spirits. Yet the letter from Charles Bingley, laid there on his secretary by one of the maids, certainly sobers him. He reflects before he opens it that there must be some manner of good news inside; certainly whatever renewal of acquaintance Charles has had with Jane Bennet has influenced all that happened with Jane's sister today. Yet Charles Bingley and Jane Bennet might have renewed their acquaintance happily, and he, Fitzwilliam Darcy, will still be cut by one of his best friends in this world. So it is with some hesitancy that he opens the letter, and reads:

_Darcy, you — — and — arrogant —,_

This from Charles, a man so amiable he would not have thought him even in knowledge of most of these words! Darcy pours himself a generous brandy, and reminds himself that at the very least, he is now engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and that very positive thought anchors him as he reads the rest of the letter. Thankfully, it seems Charles has spent much of what small amount of vitriol he possesses:

_I cannot believe your gall! I cannot say I would take Caroline's word for it, that it was best to give up Miss Bennet, but when you also convinced me that she did not have feelings for me, I felt assured that you were right, and it broke my heart. Then to find that you believe you were wrong about her feelings, that she has been in London all this time and – as it turns out, very much hoping to meet with me. How could you? As someone who considers yourself my friend, how could you?_

_I know how you have explained yourself in your last letter. I suppose, as you say, the end shall justify the means for all of us involved. I suppose I should also be more charitable, as if you had not written me, I still would not have called on Miss Bennet, and instead I have called on her twice, and dined with her and her family once, and I will certainly call again tomorrow. I find her every bit as sweet and lovely as I did in Hertfordshire, and I find myself of a mind to ask her to marry me, regardless of what you or Caroline or Louisa think._

_But then I suppose you must not have thought too poorly on the match, or you would not have written me. Was it truly just your belief in her indifference that held you back from endorsing it? I must assume so, else you would not have troubled to write me, and to send your letter express._

_Oh, and I take back the word —. I never met your mother. I am sure she was a very upstanding lady. I did not mean to insult her. The rest of it though, I think I will let that stand. You certainly have been an arrogant —, although I suppose you have partly redeemed yourself in your last letter._

_You know what? I do not need your endorsement. I am going to ask Miss Bennet to marry me. As you said I should make my own judgement, I will, and my judgement is that I wish she should spend the rest of her life with me. I hope you will bless this, but if not, I shall have done with you and your opinions._

_He who would still number you among his friends, if you will be the best man at my __wedding__!_

_CHARLES BINGLEY_

_PS: That was too presumptive of me, wasn't it? Dear God, what if she does not say yes?"_

Darcy cannot help but smile, upon concluding the letter. He still has some manner of penance to pay, but he thinks not it is not insurmountable. It will certainly be easier, when he makes clear to Charles that he is engaged to Jane Bennet's younger sister, and lets his friend know of the various complexities involved. He readies his writing things, and smiles the smile of a man engaged to the most wonderful lady of his acquaintance.

* * *

Did that surprise you? Because it surprised the hell out of me. One line of dialogue, and then it just sort of happened!


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